


red sky at night

by belovedmuerto



Series: An Experiment in Apathy [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Porn, but it's a happy ending?, empath!John, experiment in apathy, experiment in empathy, rad bromance is more of a straight romance now, this is pretty much just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:43:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John go off to Sussex to relax. Shagging happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	red sky at night

**Author's Note:**

> Just about at the end of this series, an epilogue of sorts still to come. Hopefully will get that posted soon as well, and have things wrapped up by the holidays. Probably won't get much from me from January, as I'll be in Italy. 
> 
> Thanks as always to Castiron for betaing, and to thisprettywren for betaing and hand-holding.

If Sherlock were the fanciful sort, he’d think the cottage seemed to be waiting for them. But he’s not fanciful; houses don’t wait. John, on the other hand, is clearly waiting for the house, growing more tense and excited the closer they get, practically vibrating in the passenger seat of the car. He’d been mostly silent on the train, still doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t make any attempt to keep Sherlock from feeling his relief, his excitement, his happiness that they’re out of London, that they’re in Sussex, that they’re here. It’s close to overwhelming, and Sherlock savors it.

John tumbles out of the car as soon as it halts, looking back at Sherlock with an infectious grin; John crosses the yard to the door quickly, practically running while Sherlock follows at a more reasonable pace. Sherlock hasn’t seen John grin like that in too long. Far too long, and he can’t help his own answering smile, though John doesn’t see it. He feels it though, no doubt about that. 

John has been working on letting Sherlock more fully feel his emotions, on not holding back out of fear or a desire to protect Sherlock, and Sherlock has been doing the same. They’re trying to be more transparent with each other, to talk more, no matter how uncomfortable addressing their emotional needs to each other makes both of them. It’s slow going.

The cottage has been aired, only adding to the air of welcome it exudes, that sense of open arms, of waiting--Sherlock shakes his head at the absurdity of his own thoughts. There’s a fire laid on the hearth, waiting to be lit, and the cupboards and fridge are stocked. Mycroft apologizes with food (and with three new kinds of honey in addition to the sourwood they both love). Sherlock would have things to say about that, if John’s happiness weren’t so infectious. He’s still not ready to forgive his brother for stealing John away, but he’ll not let it cast a pall on their mini break. There’s no way they’ll eat all this food in the few days they’ll be here.

He follows John through the cottage, watches him touch things, reacquaint himself with its rooms and furnishings, linger over the books. When John reaches the garden, he turns to Sherlock, who is stood just behind him, smiling. John’s happiness, his relief is in stark contrast with the angry grey clouds gathered just off the coast, with the flicker of lightning that Sherlock can see in them, out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m going to walk down to the bluff and watch; I’ll be back soon. Bring in our stuff?”

Sherlock simply nods in reply.

John grins at him and heads off, nearly at a jog. Sherlock watches him go for a moment, enjoying the way John feels right now, basking in it, the way it bubbles up inside him, before going back out to the car to bring in their bags. He’s not trying to feel happy that they’re here, he simply _is_ happy. They’ll not be here for too long, but John had asked. He had said, “Sherlock, I need to get away for a few days.”

And Sherlock cannot deny John, not when he had taken almost a whole day to work up to the admission, to saying out loud that he needed a break. It’s still tough for both of them, but they’re trying. Sherlock is more aware of his emotional shortcomings than ever, and feels like he fails at allowing them to see the light of day more often than not, but John tells him that it matters, that he appreciates Sherlock _trying_. It had been a matter of hours to wrap up his current experiments, put together some work that could be done in the country, let Lestrade know not to call for a few days, and secure train tickets and a car, while John packed bags for both of them. 

Sherlock takes their clothes upstairs to the bedroom and then goes back to the kitchen, putting the kettle on to boil and looking through Mycroft’s apology provisions. At least they won’t have to go into the village to do the shopping; they don’t have to leave the cottage at all, with the amount of food his brother laid in for them. The rain is supposed to last most of the time they’re due to be here anyway; this way they won’t even have to go down to the pub for dinner, unless John decides he really wants that. In which case, they will. Sherlock cannot deny him. Nor does he want to.

He hears the rumble of thunder, closer now, and goes to stand at the open back door. The storm looks like it’s going to be a big one, and the weather app on his phone tells him there is more rain behind the storm, days of it. John is a tiny figure on the horizon, down at the edge of the bluff watching the storm as it rolls in off the sea. But Sherlock can feel that he’s content here, exhilarated by the oncoming storm, by the charge in the air.

Sherlock stands and watches John, who stands and watches the rain sweep in off the sea. John stays when the downpour starts, and Sherlock can tell he’s drenched in less than a minute. Only when thunder rumbles almost directly overhead does John turn back towards the cottage, jogging up through the garden. Sherlock stands back and holds the door open for him. John is laughing, and Sherlock smiles at him. He’s missed John’s laughter.

For a moment, Sherlock simply watches him drip on the kitchen floor. It’s almost too late when he notices the mischief in John’s eyes, and he has to dart around the table to avoid being captured immediately when John lunges for him. He leads John in a dash around the table several times before John manages to catch him from behind, wrapping him in a thoroughly wet hug, laughing like a loon. Sherlock feels it as his clothing absorbs rain from John’s, his arms wrapped tight around Sherlock’s middle, laughter vibrating through him into Sherlock.

“Cold, John,” he complains, giving up on breaking free and accepting the chilly, wet hug. 

John chuckles again and stretches up to press his lips to Sherlock’s nape. Sherlock drops his head forward to give John better access to his skin, humming in pleasure. Warmth suffuses him, despite the chill of John’s wet jumper, of John’s wet form pressed against him, emanating from the connection of John’s lips to his skin. He doesn’t care about the cold anymore, or the fact the rain is probably ruining his shirt.

Time seems to slow to a crawl, and Sherlock finds he doesn’t mind, with John so close. It’s comforting. 

And, ok, cold. The warmth of John’s kiss only goes so far.

Sherlock turns in John’s arms, staying close, hands going to his neck, fingers slipping into his wet hair. It’s a series of slightly unpleasant sensations, all of it, made interesting in that it’s a part of John, his wet hair, his damp skin, his wet woolly jumper making him smell vaguely of sheep.

John smiles up at him, feeling content despite the goosebumps starting to erupt on his bared skin, despite being dripping wet and sharing that moisture with Sherlock. He smiles back, dropping his forehead down to meet John’s, letting his eyes fall shut. Their noses brush together, and their breathing drops into sync. That happens quite easily these days. Sherlock isn’t sure if he adjusts to John’s breath rates or if the opposite is true. 

Eyes still shut, he brushes his nose across John’s cheek, coming to rest against his temple and inhaling his scent; beneath the smell of fresh rain and wet wool there is John. Just John. It is, to be frank, Sherlock’s favorite scent. It is comfort. It is home. He could stay like this forever.

Between one breath and the next, John has pressed closer, turning his face against Sherlock’s, brushing their cheeks together, and their lips meet, a soft press. Sherlock hums into it, and John smiles against his lips.

“What’s this?” Sherlock murmurs.

“Snogging, Sherlock,” John replies, giggling. 

Sherlock giggles with him, pressing light kisses to his lips between breaths, between giggles. They settle slowly into deeper kissing, slow and languid, almost lazy, relaxed and happy. This too is comfort, is comforting. It’s a reassurance, that they are both present, paying attention, that they are both _here_. 

It’s Sherlock who pulls away enough to speak clearly. “This is disgusting, John. You’re soaked. You’re going to get sick.”

John laughs, really laughs at that, smiling with his whole face. “You really know how to sweet talk me, don’t you?”

Sherlock smiles, that one particular smile that he never gives to anyone other than John. “Well, it’s not as though I’m not currently plastered to your person, is it? So if you’re disgusting, I now am as well.”

John just shakes his head. Nothing is going to dampen his mood right now, not even Sherlock being a prat. He’s used to that, anyway. And he likes this kissing, he wants it to continue. But he is soaking wet and starting to really feel cold. So he steps back, letting Sherlock go, and says, “I’d like to get dried off and changed, actually.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock lets him go, and then follows John upstairs and into the bedroom. 

John starts taking his clothes off. “You actually brought our bags in. Sherlock, I’m proud of you,” he teases as he unbuttons the shirt he’d worn under his jumper.

“I’ll get towels,” Sherlock tells him, ignoring the dig, trying not to watch too closely. As familiar as he is with John, with his body, from the amount of time they’ve spent together, from sleeping wrapped around each other, he feels strange about watching him strip to his skin. Strange-good, mind, not strange-bad. A little fluttery, actually. A bit anticipatory, similar to the way a really intriguing puzzle makes him feel.

When he returns from the bathroom with towels for both of them, John is down to his pants, and Sherlock blinks at him for a minute before handing him the towel. John shivers slightly as he vigorously rubs himself down with the fluffy terrycloth, and he doesn’t acknowledge Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock moves more slowly, removing his shirt and hanging it up. There’s a chance it’s not ruined, but that chance is slim. When he turns away from the wardrobe, John is pulling on a pair of pyjama bottoms, and Sherlock gets an eyeful of his arse. John follows that with a t-shirt, and then another jumper, soft and old. He flops back onto the bed while Sherlock finishes carefully removing his trousers and hanging them to dry as well, then picks John’s things up off the floor, almost sopping wet, leaving a spot on the rug, and takes them into the bathroom to dump them in the shower.

When he gets back to the room, John has righted himself in the bed, and Sherlock, still in his pants, crawls in next to him and starts kissing him again. There’s almost nothing between them, and John is so warm. Sherlock wants to crawl inside him, live next to his heart, next to its quiet, comforting thump. Here, things are more intense, the kisses deeper. John is warm now, dry, comfortable and comforting pressed against the length of Sherlock, who is chilly in just his pants. John takes his time here, his hands floating across Sherlock’s skin, his mouth slow against Sherlock’s, languid. 

The thunderstorm goes unnoticed outside the cottage while they tangle together in the bed, John’s hands warm and firm on Sherlock’s back and hip while they kiss; Sherlock’s have drifted down to John’s arse, which seems to be their default location anymore, when they’re together in the same bed. 

John chuckles against his jaw as he nibbles his way towards Sherlock’s ear, biting kisses accentuated with tiny growls, and Sherlock tilts his head to allow John easier access, and a chuckle rumbles through his chest at John’s sound effects. When John pulls the way it makes him feel from him and then pushes it back, harder, stronger, he moans. John chuckles again and grabs Sherlock’s earlobe with his teeth.

Sherlock moans again. It takes him a moment to find a grasp on the emotions, to find the ability to actually grab them, but he does so, gathering and pushing them back on John. It’s John’s turn to gasp. He pushes Sherlock onto his back and swarms over him, pressing them together from mouth to hips to knees, kissing him hard, pushing harder. Sherlock feels the kiss go messy, messier, as they push back and forth; John’s hands are tangled in his hair now, tugging, and his own are, predictably, still on John’s arse. 

He breaks the kiss long enough to suck in a deep, shuddering, to murmur, “More, John, more,” and John pushes harder, and Sherlock goes rigid with pleasure.

Things go bright around the edges; they are doing little more than breathing together, licking at each other’s lips and murmuring, moaning softly, practically writhing in each other’s arms, when orgasm gathers itself up and punches him. It pulls the breath from his lungs, the sight from his eyes, and the thoughts from his head.

When Sherlock’s brain has rebooted, John is on top of him, and he is gloriously warm under John’s weight. John’s breath, deeper now but still a little accelerated to match his settling heart rate, puffs against Sherlock’s pulse point, hot and humid, and John is hard against his hip.

That’s interesting. Intriguing. That fluttery feeling zings along Sherlock’s skin again, drawing goosebumps.

But what comes out of his mouth, instead of something suave or sexy or even remotely intelligent is, “Uh, John? You’re--”

John starts against him, a full-body flinch. “Shit, sorry,” he mutters, rolling off Sherlock and to the edge of the bed.

That’s not what he was supposed to do. Sherlock curses himself silently for twelve types of idiot and sits up, grabbing John by the arm before he can do more than get his legs off the bed. John stops trying to flee but doesn’t look back at Sherlock, going still and cautious, embarrassed and aching with arousal. It’s an awful combination, and Sherlock tries to concentrate on the aroused part of it. He slides across the bed until he’s pressed against John’s back, slipping his arms around John’s waist and holding tight. 

“I’ll just--” John starts. Sherlock can see the flush rising along his neck, feel the embarrassment that suffuses him. The flush shouldn’t make him want to lick John’s neck, should it? The embarrassment makes him tighten his grip on John’s torso.

“Don’t go, John,” he murmurs.

“Sherlock, please,” John whispers back. He wraps his arms around himself with Sherlock’s, though, and leans back into him.

Sherlock lets his own feelings filter through his mind, knowing that John will feel them too, that fluttery emotion that sits in his stomach, the fascination, that simmering arousal that seems tied directly to John’s. But he speaks as well, because they need to speak to one another, they can no longer rely on their bond alone for communication, no matter how much easier it makes things, because it also makes things more difficult as well. 

“Stay, John. I want you to stay.” He presses kisses along John’s shoulder and neck, nuzzling up behind his ear, and repeats himself in a murmur, “I want you to stay.”

John melts into Sherlock’s embrace with a sigh. Sherlock can feel his arousal returning, and it ignites something low in his abdomen, something strange and familiar at once, different than before; he’s never felt it with someone before, even those few times he engaged in sexual congress with another person.

“I want to watch,” he adds, voice gone low and tight with desire.

Sherlock feels John stiffen against him again, body going still before he carefully takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets it out slowly. Sherlock waits, as patiently as he can manage, holding John tight even as John slowly turns in his arms to look at Sherlock. He must like what he sees, because Sherlock feels John’s arousal spike just before his lips are caught in a searing kiss.

John breaks the kiss a few moments later, pressing their foreheads together, breathing harsh and hands tangled in Sherlock’s hair. 

“Oh God,” John pants. “I can’t-- Do you-- I mean, do you really?”

Sherlock chuckles. “Yes, John, I do.” He pulls away gently. “I think there’s-- I’ll be right back. Get-- comfortable.”

He goes into the bathroom and returns a few minutes later with the lone tube of lubricant in the house. It’s a bit on the older side, but he doesn’t see any sort of expiration date on it so he figures it’s ok. At least it’s not something extra viscous and weird that he’d created in an experiment, for which Sherlock is pretty sure John should be grateful.

John is sprawled on the bed when he returns, lazily stroking himself through his thin pyjama bottoms, his other arm beneath the pillow under his head, eyes drooping toward shut, breathing deep and slow.

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry. For a long time, he simply stares, the lube in his hand forgotten, everything forgotten except the sight before him.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable watching from over here?” John asks him eventually, not opening his eyes, voice low and husky.

Sherlock almost drops the lube in his haste to scramble back into bed next to John, who chuckles at him. The sound of it makes him shiver. He shoves the lube in John’s general direction (it lands on his stomach) and burrows in as close as he can, pressing his face against John’s neck and inhaling deeply, smelling sweat and arousal and John. His breath shudders from his lungs on a low moan, and John chuckles at him again.

When he lifts his head again, snuggling in even more closely, John’s still lazily stroking himself, hand in his pyjama pants now. 

“I want to _see_ ,” he complains, and his voice comes out nearly a whimper.

John chuckles again, “Impatient as always. Are you watching or directing?”

“Can I direct?” Sherlock’s excitement amps up at the idea; John definitely notices. 

“No.” John looks around. “What did you go get?”

Sherlock picks the lubricant up from John’s stomach. “Thought this might help.”

John takes it from him with another laugh--it’s fascinating, how much mirth John displays during sex. Sherlock loves it. It’s never been like this before. But then, he’s never been with someone he actually cares about before, let alone someone he loves the way he loves John.

While John fumbles with the lube and his pyjama bottoms, movements lacking his usual quiet elegance in their haste, in his excitement and lust, Sherlock buries his face against John’s neck again, inhaling deep, soaking in the haze of arousal he’s feeling, letting it suffuse him as well.

“Hey,” John says after a few moments. He turns his head to nudge his nose against Sherlock’s cheek. “Help me get these off.”

Sherlock obeys with alacrity, while John kicks his legs out of the pyjama bottoms, his dominant left hand around his cock. Sherlock settles back at John’s side to watch.

He goes slow at first, Sherlock notices, taking his time, savoring the way it makes him feel. Sherlock savors it as well, the arousal, the pleasure, the happiness that Sherlock is with him, watching him. 

Time seems to slow down after that, while John pleasures himself and Sherlock breathes it in.

He wants to touch John. He wants to feel more than his breath as it starts to speed, his heartbeat. Sherlock wants to feel his sweat, feel the heat of his skin, the pulse of his blood.

“Are you watching, Sherlock?” John asks, in a gasp. It’s the first sound he’s made into the quiet of the room, other than the sound of his hand on his own cock, the slick, dirty sounds of the lube and his own soft moans.

“Yes, John,” he breathes in reply. “I am. Keep going, John.”

“Keep talking, Sherlock,” John pleads on a moan.

So Sherlock obeys. He murmurs in John’s ear everything that comes into his head, every observation, every little thing that he can think of, all while keeping his eyes on John, on what he’s doing, on what he likes. 

He doesn’t realize that he’s telling John how much he wants to touch him until John gasps, “Oh god, Sherlock, please. Please.” 

So he does, sliding his hand across John’s chest. John moans, and Sherlock grows more bold. He concentrates on the connection of skin to skin, his palm sliding over John’s body; it makes everything feel more intense in his head, the way John feels sharpening in his mind. He runs his hand down John’s chest, across his abdomen, closer to his groin than he thought he’d dare.

John grabs his hand before he gets too close, and twists in the bed, half onto his side so he can look Sherlock full in the face. His pupils are blown, his breathing nearly frantic. He’s close, Sherlock can see it; hell, he can feel it. 

“Will you?” John asks, voice raspy with want.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes.

John moans again and kisses him, sloppy with panting and desire. He grabs Sherlock’s hand, impatient now, demanding, as he shifts back onto his back, planting his feet on the bed and guiding Sherlock’s hand to his cock.

He moans Sherlock’s name when Sherlock touches him.

And now John’s directing him, moans telling him when he finds something John likes, gasped pleas for more, for tighter, for _oh god Sherlock yes, there_.

Sherlock can’t tear his eyes away. It’s simple and base and messy, but he can’t look away from his hand on John’s cock, not even to see the way John looks. Maybe next time he will get to see that as well.

He’s swamped in the feeling of it, in the rising tide crashing through John, swept away by it, blinded to everything but the sheen of sweat on John’s skin and the feel of him.

“Oh god, John,” he gasps, and is surprised at how shattered his own voice sounds. “The way you _feel_.” Sherlock presses sloppy kisses to the part of John that’s closest to his mouth, which happens to be his shoulder.

John grabs his arm, hard, holding on to him and the headboard, and goes careening into shouting, shuddering orgasm. Sherlock soothes him through it as best he can--it’s been a while since he had helped anyone other than himself have an orgasm--and fumbles around in the sheets for John’s pyjama bottoms while John pants and floats back into himself. 

On second thought, Sherlock fumbles around some more until he comes up with a t-shirt, and uses that to clean John up. John makes a noise at his gentle ministrations, something between over-stimulated and eternally grateful. After Sherlock tosses the shirt, John grabs him and pulls him in for a kiss, pulling him close; Sherlock shuts his eyes and loses himself in it.

When the kiss has faded into something else, into shared breath, the press and slide of skin against skin, Sherlock sinks into John, into what he’s feeling and perceiving. It shouldn’t work, he shouldn’t be able to see himself so clearly through John’s mind. But somehow, it does, and right now it isn’t even a terrifying thing, to be close to John and in his mind. 

He’s briefly reminded of the dream he sometimes has, where he’s safe and loved and warm, next to John’s heart, and of the talk they’d had shortly before leaving home--a declaration.

Sherlock keeps his eyes shut and lets John’s perception wash over him. It’s as though he’s truly seeing himself through John’s eyes. Through them, he practically glows with life, with intelligence, with love, although he can’t tell if it’s John’s love for him, or his for John. Either way, it’s a heady feeling. John is surprised at how aroused he is, surprised and elated, surprised and a little unsure how to proceed.

“Of course I am, John,” Sherlock murmurs, finally opening eyes he’s sure are blown with lust and looking into John’s.

John doesn’t say anything, and Sherlock pushes on, pushes himself closer to John, rutting gently against his hip and moaning a little. “I find your arousal incredibly arousing.”

“I could help you with that,” John replies, a smile in his voice and on his lips.

Just the idea of it threatens to overwhelm Sherlock, and John surely feels it. 

“Whatever you want, Sherlock,” John continues, reaching across the no-distance-at-all separating them and tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock turns so he can kiss John some more, and for long moments that’s enough, enough to replace air and breathing and thought. It’s almost too intense, slow and deep. John kisses with intent, letting him know it’s all fine, whatever he wants, however, whenever.

Sherlock is the one who breaks the kiss, eventually. “John,” he murmurs, with his eyes shut and his breath mingling with John’s. “Would you-- hold me-- while I--?”

John smiles, he can feel it, and nods. “Yes, of course.”

They shift on the bed, the rest of Sherlock’s clothing melting away as he turns over to his other side, and John curls against his back, tucked together.

“Big spoon,” John murmurs against his shoulder blade, passing him the bottle of lube. Sherlock manages to smile at that as he pours some lubricant into his hand and slicks himself, only partially muffling the moan it draws from him. He loses himself quickly in it, in the sensations that threaten to overwhelm him.

John presses close against his back, arms tight around him, hand over his heart, nose pressed into his curls, breathing audibly in time with him. And then--then John starts to speak. His voice is husky and low, and it goes straight to Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock sinks into it, listening to what John is telling him to do, obeying, moving slowly, inexorably towards his own orgasm. It should be overwhelming, as it has been in the past, but it’s not. It’s safe here, with John. Part of it is his voice, because he is safety and warmth and home, and his voice is a reminder that anywhere he is, as long as John is there too, it is home. Part of it is the things John is saying, telling him to do.

Sherlock sinks further into John, feels himself through John, his own oncoming orgasm through John, tied to John’s directions, his instructions, his voice. Still, it’s something of a shock when it hits him, tearing a moan from his throat that matches the one from John.

When Sherlock opens his eyes again, he’s looking up at the ceiling, sprawled out in the bed with the solid weight of John half atop him.

“Hng,” he says, eloquently, letting his eyes fall shut again.

John chuckles, and Sherlock feels his weight move away; he makes a sound of protest and John makes another sound, mirthful. A moment later, there is more warmth, John’s weight returned along with the lighter weight of the covers. 

Slowly, they snuggle together, both of them moving slowly in their post-coital torpor. The rain lashing against the windows is a soothing backdrop, the room cool outside the cocoon that surrounds them. Sherlock listens to the rain and to John’s breathing, and enjoys that his brain seems to have dropped into safe-mode, recording without analyzing; he is mercifully calm and at peace.

“Did I just come three times?” he eventually asks. His arms are around John, holding him close, one hand idly stroking up and down his bare back. They sleep like this often, it should be familiar, but the nudity is something new, something a bit distracting. Still, sleep is easing its way in.

John snorts against his chest. “Is that why I can’t seem to keep a thought in my head?”

For a few minutes, they chuckle--any more would require too much energy.

“We should eat,” John murmurs, seemingly hours later.

“Mmm,” Sherlock replies. He tightens his arms around John, and John chuckles again. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” John whispers.

“Good,” Sherlock murmurs back. He listens to the rain, and to John’s breathing, and they both drift off as the afternoon passes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Real Like Logic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/687890) by [PrettyArbitrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary)




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